


The Queen Beyond the Wall

by nickahontas



Series: The Valaena Verse [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark Sister - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, POV Jon Snow, Rhaegar has a BAMF little sister, Self-Insert, The Night’s Watch, but told from canon POV, free folk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24737659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: Benjen meets with wildlings to trade on a long ranging and finds a Targaryen princess that has been missing for decadesA self-insert told from canon perspectives.
Relationships: Benjen Stark/OFC
Series: The Valaena Verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714522
Comments: 13
Kudos: 208





	1. Chapter 1

**286 AC**

The North calls to Benjen. The sun glittering on the ice in the trees, the heavy crunch of snow under his boots, the sharp, fresh air of the cold. It calls to Benjen in a way that not even Winterfell had. The Watch says it is the Stark in him. The Wildlings say it is the wolf in him.

Benjen says it the guilt in him. Always there, always storming and burning and cutting. The North is the only thing that calms it.

A child’s playful shriek echoes through the towering spruce trees. Treating and trading with wildlings had shocked Benjen when he began ranging two years ago, but he steadily began to accept it. He came to realize they’re just men with the bad luck of being born on the wrong side of the Wall. Or the good luck, considering one’s perspective. It’s a hard life so far north, but it’s a simple one.

“I count five crows wandering these woods,” a man says. Benjen and his brothers halt, not even daring to count the archers that are sure to surround them. “Make a mighty fine bird stew, they would.”

“We’re here to trade and talk,” Old Orwen says.

A short, dark haired man lets himself be seen. He’s dressed in lighter furs than Benjen despite all the snow, and he doesn’t have the cruel glint to his eyes that some men do.

“You willin’ to trade that big carcass?”

Benjen glances wistfully at the eight point stag thrown across Roland’s horse. It would make for a fine meal back on the Wall, peppered and salted and served with cooked cabbage.

“Aye,” Orwen says. “We’re headed further north. Got no use for something so cumbersome. “

“Alright, then. I’ll take you to Lokmir after you strap your swords to your horses and tie them up. Never heard anything against you Orwen, but we got children here.”

Orwen spits in the snow. “I’m no child killer.”

“Never said you was. Can’t take no chances, but you can keep your knives and daggers.”

“You heard him, lads,” Orwen grumbles.

The other three look hesitant, but this isn’t Benjen’s first ranging. As proud as he is to be a black brother, he holds no illusions. Some of the men should have been killed rather than sent to the Wall. The Lord Commander tries to keep men like that close in hand, but there are as many despicable wildlings as there are men of the Watch. They’re all just men at the end of the day.

Orwen curses as they break through the tree line. Children, indeed. This is no mere village. They’ve come across a burgeoning settlement. It looks as though at least three tribes have come together to wait out the winter. Children chase after shaggy dogs and lean goats. Women chat around tents and campfires while spearwives and men watch their procession with caution.

“They’re just families,” one of the new boys says disbelievingly.

Benjen snorts. “Aye. Most Free Folk are. It’s the Thenns and the raiders you’ve got to watch out for. Settlements and villages like these can mean life or death on a ranging like ours.”

“And don’t underestimate the mothers,” Orwen warns. “Most of them used to be spearwives or were at least taught how to open a man’s belly. You’ll find no flowery maidens up here.”

They are led past several huts and a wooden hall to a tent made of skins and furs. A spearman glares at them over a thick beard as they enter. It is bright and warm inside. Benjen counts around nine men and six women loitering about. Some chat on cushions to the side and others talk around the fire. Lokmir stands as they approach, bringing a hush around the tent. Benjen’s met him once or twice. He’s average in looks and skill, but more than makes up for it with his cleverness.

“Well, well. It’s been many a moon since I’ve seen Old Orwen,” Lokmir says in his deep voice. “Fetch some bread and salt, Winnie.”

Benjen accepts his portions from a girl with red-gold hair with a small smile. She can’t be more than three and ten. She blushes and rushes back to a corner.

“My thanks, Lorwick.”

“Take a seat, take a seat, old man. I don’t know these boys. Green as summer grace, I’d wager.”

“Aye. There’s Tom, Victor, and Roy. I dunno if you-“

“Benjen Stark.” Lokmir looks over Benjen with a strange look in his eyes. Ben stares back, unperturbed. “Go get the Princess, Winnie. She’ll want to see this.”

Orwen casts a questioning glance at Benjen, but he shrugs. He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. The Wildlings have always respected him for his family name. It might annoy him if it hadn’t got him out of trouble a time or two. Once, he’d been stranded in the shadow of the Frostfangs, desperate for reprieve from a snowstorm. He found a cave and was nearly speared through until he introduced himself. It’s strange, but he’s never seen reason to question it. Until now, maybe.

Orwen grunts as he takes a seat on a cushion, putting his back to the door in a sign of trust. Benjen sits on his left side and motions for the new brothers to follow. Wildling Princess or not, they’ve had bread and salt. Guest rights are held sacred even above the Wall.

Orwen accepts a mug of ale with a grunt. “Meant to ask you about some rumors, but if you’ve got a princess then I already have my answers.”

The ale is thick and surprisingly sweet. Much better than the fermented milk of the northern tribes. The new brothers seem to disagree. They hide sour faces and gags as best they can. Benjen glances over Orwen and realizes they have different cups brought from a different man. He clears his throat to disguise his chuckle.

“She’s not what you’re thinking. And I won’t be the one to answer those kinds of questions. That’ll be her. You got any others?”

Benjen relaxes as they discuss the weather, game, and winter trails. Really, he only came along so that Orwen wouldn’t be stuck with a bunch of boys. He knows how awful that is from experience. That and to get one long trip under his belt before winter kicks in. He’s always been restless. Perhaps not as wild as Brandon, but his thoughts catch up to him when he’s idle for too long. Best to stay busy instead of doing something he might regret.

He’s soon lulled half to sleep by the fire and the voices. He hardly notices when frigid air bursts through the tent flap. He doesn’t even pay attention when someone sits beside him. It’s when she speaks that he bothers to open his eyes.

“A Stark of Winterfell at last,” she says.

Benjen stares. He stares and stares. She’s stunning. Perhaps the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and he met Cersei Lannister and Ashara Dayne. Sharp, aristocratic features are curtained by long silver hair. Her skin is as pale as milk, except for her cheeks and lips, which are a lovely shade of pink. All of that is passing strange, yes, but it’s the indigo eyes that have his stomach on the floor.

“No,” he hears himself say.

Her lips, full to the point of vulgarity, quirk into a smile.

Benjen jumps upright. He’s vaguely aware of gasps at his back, but he’s too distracted to care.

“No. There’s no fucking way.”

”If I’d known this is the rea-“

“What the fuck sort of jest is this?” He snarls.

She raises her brows. “This is no jest.”

“It must be. It has to be. You’re dead.”

“I am?”

Laughter echoes behind him.

“You died. You had to have died. They looked for you for three years. All the seven bloody kingdoms looked for you. I remember search parties coming and going from Winterfell when I was a boy. The White Bull dined with us once.”

Her shoulders drop the slightest bit, but her voice is still amused when she asks, “Did they everlook for me here?”

“Obviously not! How in the seven hells did you even get up here?!”

“Why would ye come up here?!” Roy sputters. “Ye were a fecking princess!”

The Princess scoffs. “And so was Elia Martell. Twice over. And look where that got her. Raped by a man still coated in her son’s brains.”

One of the wildlings spits heavily into the fire. Roy melts into himself, half hiding behind behind his sworn brothers.

“Pardon, Miss,” he murmurs.

Another wildling laughs, but the Princess only smiles kindly. “No harm done. It’s not like I ever knew her. I got out way before I could have known her.”

“But how? Why?” Victor demands.

“Will you tell your tale, Vee?”A spear wife calls.

Princess Valaena Targaryen, apparently called Vee, sips on a mug of wildling ale. Benjen looks her over again. She’s as tall as him and wrapped up in shades of grey and white. A bone dagger pokes out from her hip and a sword hilt wrapped in white leather peeks over one shoulder. Whatever else she is now, she’s still royalty.

“Bring our guests food. It’ll be dinner and a show. How’s that?”

“Milady,” Orwen says, “none of us give a flyin’ fuck about food right now.”

She shrugs. “Very well.” She takes a moment to reposition her cushion before she take a long drink of her ale. Benjen realizes she’s giving her audience a chance to settle in. Most of the Free Folk take seats on the tent floor while another calls out into the village. Soon, the small space is packed with bodies. His sworn brothers are just as bewildered as he is.

“It began almost five hundred years ago,” she says in a low voice. “When Daenys the Dreamer was just a maid, she dreamt of a horrible avalanche of fire and earth. She ran to her father and begged him to leave. Magic was still alive and well in the world then, so in the dead of night, the Targaryens fled Valyria atop their monstrous dragons. They flew for almost a turn of the moon until they came across an island of mountains. ‘This shall be Dragonstone,’ Lord Aenar Targaryen said, and so it was.

“The last dragonlords lived in peace for a hundred and fourteen years before Fate reared its ugly head. Aegon Targaryen was wed to his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya, as the Targaryens of old did. So when a king from the mainland asked for a marriage pact, Lord Aegon refused. ‘I have two wives,’ he said, ‘I do not need a third.’

“Still, Aegon was intrigued. He was an intelligent, fierce warrior bonded to a beast that cast cities in shadow. The world lay at his feet. He only need reach out and take it. Aegon, however, was a wise man. Instead of conquering the world, he settled for Westeros, and so it was that the Targaryen dynasty was built.

“Eventually, magic began to fade out of the world and the dragons with it. It is said that the gods flip a coin when a Targaryen is born. Yet others say that madness and greatness are two sides of that same coin and you cannot have one without the other. Whatever the truth, the Targaryens killed their dragons with all of their wars until they were nothing more than normal men in silks.

“Only sixty years ago, a boy named Aerys was born to such a man. It could not be known then, but Aerys would lose the coin toss to a madness so terrible that it would cost the Targaryens their dynasty.

“Aerys became king and married his sweet sister, Rhaella. Theirs was not a happy marriage even before Aerys became the Mad King. Out of dozens of miscarriages and dead babes, only four lived to be named. The first was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, a quiet, serious boy caught up in the mysteries of old. Four years later, they had a princess named Valaena.

“Valaena was a happy child at first. Servants taught her to walk and talk and laugh. She woke bright and early to explore her red castle and then went to bed at night to fall asleep to the screams of her mother.

“One morning, when Lewyn of Dorne guarded her door, she asked, ‘Lewyn of Dorne, why is my mother so scared at night?’

“Lewyn of Done knelt on one knee and said, with sad, brown eyes, ‘It is because she cannot protect herself, child.’ When the Princess asked why he could not protect the Queen, he said it was because he made a holy vow to never harm the King, even when the King did bad things.

“Valaena went to bed that night, thinking of vows and kings and guards and gods, and she dreamed.

“She dreamed terrible things. Her brother, her sweet, sad brother, would turn into a terrible dragon. He would start a war, which would bring about the end of his family, and that would lead to another war and another after that. War after war, king after king, and all the while a great threat in the North brewed. It was a winter storm that swirled and raged and ate up all the Free Folk, until it crashed against the Wall and shattered it into tiny pieces of ice too.

“Once, a very long time ago, the Starks of Winterfell defeated that storm. They and their direwolves pushed it back and locked it away behind that great wall of ice. But war after war and king after king came, and the pack of direwolves were scattered to the four winds. Winter came, but it’s keepers were nowhere to be found.

“Princess Valaena awoke with a fright. She could not find her Lewyn of Dorne, but she came across a White Bull leaving his post at the King’s door. ‘Bull,’ she said, ‘I dreamed like Daenys the Dreamer and now I must learn to fight.’

“‘Princess,’ the Bull said, ‘you are a princess. Princesses do not fight.’

“The Princess balled up her little fist and punched him between the legs and said, ‘I am a dragon and you cannot tell a dragon not to fight.’ So every day for fourteen years, the girl fought. She fought and fought until even her older brother could not win against her. She fought and fought with the greatest fighters of the seven kingdoms and even one from across the sea. She fought and fought until one day she woke up with blood between her legs.

“‘Now, little dragon,’ her mother said, ‘Now you cannot fight. You will marry your brother and give him sons to fight for you.’

“‘But I am a dragon, Mother,’ the Princess argued. ‘You cannot clip a dragon’s wings.’

“‘The dragons are all dead, child,’ her mother said.

“The Princess went to bed that night and dreamed some more. She dreamt of her little sister fleeing the kings and wars across the sea. Her sister fell in love and grew big with child, but a witch took her man and babe away. In her despair, the sister burned the witch with her husband and babe and walked into the pyre with dragon eggs. The next morning, when the sun was high, she woke to three dragon babes. They grew and grew until they flew across the sea. There, they fought in a great battle, and one dragon fell and rose again with blue eyes. Still they fought and fought until they died for their mother.

“Princess Valaena went to her Bull first. Then she went to her Lewyn of Dorne. She went to her mother next. And finally, she went to her brother. ‘The dragon has three heads,’ he agreed as he kissed her lips, ‘but it was only a dream, sweet sister. Our children shall be the three headed dragon. We will have a son and two daughters and they will fight back the coming storm. Our son is the prince that was promised.’

“But Valaena remembered her dreams. She remembered the coming war. She remembered her brother’s son crushed against a wall, remembered his daughter stabbed half a hundred times, remembered his wife raped and killed.

“Valaena knew it was wrong to leave. She knew she was condemning another to her fate. She knew it was craven and cowardly. She knew it, but the dreams were still fresh on her mind and she could still feel her brother’s tongue in her mouth, so she ran. She shaved her head and bound her breasts and traded clothes with an orphan boy and she ran.

“The first ship boarded at a town called Gulltown. The second stopped at Northern city called White Harbor. The third took her to an island called Skaagos, but even there dragon banners flew, so she took a fourth to damned place called Hardhome.

“And so it was there, on the cursed ground of Hardhome, that the craven daughter of the Mad King learned to love and live and laugh and fly. It was there that Princess Valaena learned to be Vee.

“Vee was more hungry and tired than she had ever been, but she was free. She was freer than even the dragons of old had been. But she was still guilty. Haunted. She had abandoned her people in the time of their greatest need. So Valaena bled and cried to a weirwood tree until she had another dream. A stranger dream.

“She went north and north and north, where she came upon a cave guarded by a Child. The Child gave her a kiss and a sword and sent her on her way. And years later, when a dragon saw a wolf, she told her tale.”

The tent bursts into applause. The Free Folk and Black Brothers alike clap and hoot and stomp their feet. All except for Benjen, who stares at the Princess in unbridled horror. She takes one look at his accusing gaze and balks.

“Tell me you lie,” he demands. “Tell me it was a lie.”

In answer, Valaena Targaryen unbuckles the scabbard on her shoulder and passes her weapon over. It slides from its sheath with a whisper, revealing a familiar pattern of dark metal. Stomach churning, Benjen pulls at the white leather. It unravels again and again until he is staring down at the a blade lost for centuries. Dark Sister. Visenya Targaryen’s sword is in his hands. A massive ruby is nestled in between a golden dragonwing crossguard. He knows her legend. Names come to him unbidden: Bloodraven, the Dragonknight, Daemon, on and on until Maegor and Visenya. 

“Did you know?” He asks.

Her pitying expression is all the answers he needs.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?! You could have saved her! You could have save all of them!”

“Who would have listened to me?” She counters softly.

Benjen places the legendary sword at her feet and shoves his way out of the tent. He doesn’t stop until he’s far into the trees and only the gods can hear his scream.

He returns to find the settlement lit up by the light of the stars. The children have been sent to bed, but the adults still linger around campfires and tent flaps. Benjen makes his own camp on the treeline. The cold is the least of his worries tonight.

That is where she finds him, brooding over a campfire like he’s Ned Stark. She places a jug at his feet and sits beside him with her own. He takes a long pull without sniffing. It’s what they call moonshine, fruit and plants fermented into a liquor worse than anything south of the wall. He gulps it down like spring water.

“You could have warned us, at least.”

“No, I couldn’t have. I would have been married to Rhaegar and locked away on Dragonstone or in the Maidenvault. And even if I did get away, none of you would have believed me. You would’ve thought me mad or trying to get out of my marriage. Which wouldn’t have been wrong, mind you.”

He watches as she takes a swig from her earthenware jug.

“Did you love him?” He wonders. He can’t imagine marrying Lya. The very thought makes him want to hurl.

“No. We ignored one another for years. Maybe we thought it would make a marriage easier if we didn’t have a sibling relationship. Maybe I did love him and I’ve been lying to myself to feel better about it all.”

Benjen takes another long drink, his thoughts tumbling on each other until they’re nothing but a tired mess.

“How could you leave? How could you-“

“I’m no hero, Stark. I’m a selfish creature that will only rouse itself for the people it loves and I only loved myself back then. I couldn’t even love my mother, gods rest her soul. I was young and angry and didn’t want to know how easy it is for men and women to break.”

‘ _She fell asleep to her mother’s screams at night_.’ Benjen shudders. Inexplicably, he thinks of Jaime Lannister. Did the Kingslayer finally break? Or had he done it for his father, as everyone assumes? What would Benjen have done? Does it matter? Does any of it really matter if what she said is true?

“Was it all the truth? All of it? Is there really something coming for us all?”

“It already is,” she says, taking a long, slow swig. “But don’t worry your pretty little face, Stark.There’s another....what year is it, anyway?”

“286.”

She chokes on her drink. “Fuck, is it really? Damn. Time flies when you’re not held hostage by your own father, doesn’t it?”

He scowls, ignoring how the world seems to spin when he turns to glare at her. He hasn’t been this drunk since Harrenhal. Or maybe since he took his vows. Or since Sansa was born. Or-

“Don’t worry,” she slurs, waving her hand dismissively. “You’ve got another ten years, I’d wager. Have the Greyjoy’s rebelled yet?”

“No?”

“Hm. Let me know when they do, would you?”

“Sure thing. I’ll send a raven.”

To his surprise, she bursts out in chiming laughter. She laughs until she falls onto her side and doesn’t bother getting back up. He takes a moment to admire the sharp edge of her jaw, her pale lashes lying against her cheek, the fire turning her silver hair yellow.

“Don’t fall asleep. I have questions for you.”

“Get on with it then.”

“Has someone up here made themselves king?”

She flops onto her back and stares into him with purple eyes. “I know no king but the King in the North, who’s name is Stark.”

Benjen scoffs. “I’m serious.”

“As am I.”

“I need to know. The Watch needs to know.”

She doesn’t seem to be listening to him. Almost to herself, she says, “I thought about trying to change it. I get curious sometimes, wondering what you’re all really like. But you can take care of yourselves. The South, the North, the Watch. They can all take care of themselves. These people can’t and they’re the ones on the front lines.”

A thought occurs to him. “Are you the king of the wildlings?”

She chokes on a laugh, startling herself out her half asleep musings. “Gods no! I’m not cut out for all that. Tell me who to fight and leave me be, is all I’m good for.”

“You’re a true wildling, aren’t you?”

“Aye. I’m free to do as I like. Even this.” 

With starling speed, her hand snakes out to pull down on his jerkin and she smashes lips against his. His body reacts, just for a second, until he gathers his wits and shoves off of her. He snarls, a savage insult on the tip of his tongue, but she’s already on her feet and smirking down at him.

“Until next time, Lord Stark,” she says with a smooth curtesy.

He watches her walk away, sparing a moment to admire the curve of her arse, before shaking his head and cursing himself for a fool. There will be no next time. He’ll make sure of that.


	2. Chapter 2

Ben meets the Princess again the next spring. She is kneeling before a heart tree, her white hair almost blinding in the bright sunlight. He takes a moment to drink her in. She truly is lovely. Framed by the snow and the pale bark, she looks as if she was the one borne to the North. She looks at home. 

Benjen lets his boot crunch on the snow. Her head snaps up, violet eyes alert. They soften as she takes him in.

“Hello, First Ranger.”

Ben’s dark brows furrow. “I’m not first ranger.”

The Princess mirrors his puzzled expression. “Oh. Has the Greyjoy Rebellion happened yet?”

“No.”

She murmurs something under her breath and plops into snow. Ben watches as she rummages through the deerskin pack at her feet. The mad woman isn’t wearing gloves. A thousand questions run through his mind, mostly about the lack of gloves, but he settles on one that’s been bothering him for almost two years.

“What’s with the Greyjoy rebellion? Why do you care?”

She pulls a thick parcel from the cavernous depths of her pack and holds it out.

“Because that’s when it all starts.” She shakes the package. “Go on. I worked all winter on it.”

He takes it and lowers himself to sit on a large white root. It reminds him of home, of sitting at their father’s feet while he told stories before the Old Gods. The parcel is tied up in the southern way with northern material. A bit of blue linen is knotted up prettily around an animal skin cloth. The wrapping unfolds to reveal a journal.

Well. He certainly hadn’t expected her diary.

He glances up. The Princess is staring at it with a solemn, almost fearful expression. She catches him watching and doesn’t bother to hide her unease. 

“That will change your life,” she says. “You’ll not be able to eat or sleep once you’ve read it. All you’ll be able to do is fret and fight, like I have all this time.”

Ben’s laugh echoes throughout the trees. “What? Have you given me my fortune?”

“Aye. Yours and your family’s.”

He stills, a protective rage freezing the blood in his veins.

“And what do you know of my family?”

“Everything.”

“You fucking Targaryens! You’re always-“

Valaena rushes to her feet. “Don’t you dare-“

Benjen does too, snaking out to drag her by the collar of her jerkin. He pulls her close, snarling into her face.

“Stay away from me and mine, dragonbitch, or I’ll gut you like the animal you are.”

A sudden wind gusts through the clearing, disrupting the snow and growling in his ears. Ben drops his grip on the Princess to gape at the swirling white powder and dancing leaves. Even the animals have stopped their cheerful chattering. It is only the wind and the cold and red eyes of the weirwood tree.

“I’ll be at Whitetree when your read it.”

He startles at the strange tenor of her voice. Her eyes are dark and contemplative, darting over his features curiously. Slowly, those vulgar lips of hers pull back in a smile.

“Until then, Benjen Stark.”

Benjen watches her leave, too bewildered to do anything other than gawk.

The journal haunts him. He thinks of the desire in her eyes, of her crisp snowy scent, of the tree’s sap, red as blood. He thinks of how she belonged to that grove, how it seemed to belong to her. He thinks of that dreadful wind.

The journal haunts him, so he shoves it deep in his trunk. Out of sight, out of mind.

He doesn’t think about it again until he is elected First Ranger. It glares at him from his new bookshelf, taunting him day and night. Still, he ignores it.

And then the Greyjoys rebel.

He reads it.He leaves for Whitetree at dawn. 

  
  


The Princess is not in Whitetree. The wildling shepherd laughs when he asks for her.

Benjen sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I suppose it was too much to hope she waited so long.”

“Milord?” The young Reachman asks. Phil is a good lad that got caught up in false promises from brigands. He seems to truly regret his actions now that he’s grown a bit and had the time to think on them.

“Not a lord,” Benjen grouses. “I guess we’ll have to see if Craster’s heard anything.”

The shepherd laughs again, his amusement echoed by the two or three people watching.

“Oh, Craster ain’t heard nothin, boy.”

Dread’s icy fingers clutch at his heart and squeeze. Ben glances up at the nefarious Heart Tree for comfort. Craster was a truly detestable man, but his thrice damned keep was sometimes the only reprieve from starvation and cold.

“What?! Why?! What’s happened to him?!”

“Why donchu go an’ see, pretty lord?” A woman teases, her ugly teeth on display.

“Aye,” Benjen says. “Suppose I’ll have to.”

On their trek back to the horses, his brother Marrick curses something awful.

“Benjen, if Craster is dead and his killer is no friend of the watch, it’ll change things.”

Ben thinks of Jon Snow and Jorah Mormont and Samwell Tarly.

“The Watch has made do before,” he says aloud. “It’ll do it again.”

“They might be a friend,” their fourth brother, a man from the Dreadfort, says.

Marrick snorts. “I doubt that, Abe. I doubt that very much.”

They reach Craster’s in a fortnight. Things have already changed. A second wall of sharp fence has risen and a ditch is being dug around a large perimeter. Around that, a ring of Dragon’s Teeth, sharp wooden stakes tied or nailed into an x, are being constructed. All by men. There are men everywhere. Some are digging, some are sawing, and some are glaring over shields and spears. There are more women, too. Different builds and colors and a healthy twinkle in their eyes.

Something in Benjen relaxes. Craster’s killer is not cruel, then. Not to innocents. The Night’s Watch is a different matter. The guards watch the brothers approach with the promise of violence in their eyes, but they do not attack.

Three new buildings have popped up. They each seem to serve some sort of purpose. Other, smaller ones are being built, their future occupants living in tents at their sides. Benjen hasn’t seen anything like it. Not this far north.

It hits him suddenly, the crippling relief like a wave against the cliffs. He nearly stumbles under the realization.

“Benjen?”

Benjen smiles. He feels it tug at his cheeks, feels his eyes crinkle. He leads his men with renewed fervor, not even pausing to knock on the door. The longhouse looks much the same inside. There is a lighter air to it. The voices are louder, the fires brighter. And the laughter. He’s never heard anyone genuinely laugh here.

In the middle of it all, a tall woman is sprawled lazily in a cushioned chair. Valaena Targaryen studies the rangers with her chin propped on her first. She’s wearing a dress for the first time since he’s met her, tailored fabric dyed a bold red. She truly looks like some sort of pagan princess now.

“Seven hells!” Phil cries.

The Princess grins. “That never gets old.”

“You’ve been busy,” Benjen says, ignoring his young brother. 

Valaena shrugs. “I got bored.”

“She’s-she’s a fucking Targaryen!” Phil sputters.

“Was this wise?” Benjen asks.

“Craster’ll not have anything to say.”

“And what about his pale gods?”

Valaena’s eyes flash. A serving woman, probably one of the daughter-wives, drops their tray of bread and salt. The broad man at her side stomps forward, his spear raised the slightest bit. Marrick and Abe unsheathe their blades an inch of two.

“And what does a crow know of the Old Ones?” The wildling sneers. “What does a crow, all safe and warm on his Wall, know of Death?”

Valaena rolls her eyes. “He’s a Stark, you big lout. He knows plenty.”

The man spits a glob of phlegm onto the dirt floor. “I dunna care if he-“

“You should,” she snaps, straightening in her chair. “The Starks are favored by the Old Gods, just as I am. Do you really think Benjen Stark’s arrival- the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch, the Bane of the Wildlings, the Stark on the Wall- is a coincidence?”

The small crowd gathered begins murmuring in agreement. Some of the women look upon the brothers with a glimmer of hope. It’s unsettling. The Night’s Watch are met with respect, disdain, indifference, or fear, but ever hope. Unbidden, all of the scenes from her journal come flooding back. Tall figures with white hair. Dead men rising with blue eyes.

“What has happened?” Benjen asks as he studies their faces.

He can see the fear, the mad desperation now. How long has it been there? How long has he ignored these people? He used to think he was one of the more tolerant brothers, that he accepted the Folk as northmen. But did he really? Their yet unnamed king- he’ll have to weasel it out of her- has spent nigh on twenty years wrangling the tribes together. Have the White Walkers been stirring so long? Have they been killing so long?

A gruff old woman steps forward. Benjen recognizes her. She was one of Craster’s first wives, one of the only ones unrelated to him.

“Tis the waxing crescent of the seventh cycle,” she says. Her chin is tipped high and the lines on her face pulled tight with grim acceptance. “They come every seventh new moon.”

The other folk are just as proud. They stand with their shoulders back and feet planted, refusing to be cowed by desperation. Benjen looks to their princess. She smiles at him, a sad mockery of her wild grins.

”I fear Aegon the Conqueror would resurrect himself just to tan my hide if I ran away from an ice demon.”

“They’re serious,” Marrick murmurs, dark eyes darting from face to face. They linger on the Princess. “You’re all fucking serious.”

Valaena leans forward in her seat. “You can’t tell me you live on the Wall and actually believe it was created to keep wildlings out.” She snorts and waves her hand around her packed longhouse. “You don’t need a wonder of the world to keep us out. Look at us. We’re-“

“But you’re a Targaryen,” Phil says stupidly 

“I gave up the right to call myself a Targaryen when I fled King’s Landing. The Free Folk took me in when I had nowhere to go. The Old Gods loved me when I could not love myself. Whatever lies I may have to spew, I will always be a Folk at heart. But this isn’t about me. It’s about Westeros. It’s about the whole damn world.

“You’re going to stay, Watchers. You are going to stay and you are going to watch and you are going to spread the tale.”

“Are you mad?!”

“No,” Benjen realizes. “She wants to die. It’s why you gave me-“

“Ha! It does look like that, doesn’t it? Worry not, Benny-boy, I won’t be fighting it alone. I’ve got Valyrian steel, dragonglass, and a Thenn. I’m not stupid enough to try-“

“A Thenn?!” Benjen cries.

“Benny-boy,” Abe whispers.

“Aye. A Thenn. I’ll not ask you to fight with me. Only to stay and watch.”

Benjen sighs. He hadn’t expected this. He didn’t know what to expect, but certainly not this. She has a habit of turning his world on its head.

“Very well. We’ll watch.”

  
  


It is the longest five days he has lived in a long time. It is like being the Stark in Winterfell again, walking around in aimless circles, waiting for something dreadful to happen. He spends it with the Princess, oddly enough. They spend their days sparring in front of a frightened weirwood tree. Their nights are long and spent discussing her terrible, awful dreams.

On the fourth night, when there is just a hairsbreadth of a crescent, Craster’s last and only son is born. The next day, Vee’s hamlet is silent. No one speaks. They do not eat. They do not sleep. They only sharpen their blades and guard their fires, even in the bright light of midday.

Hunters and guards rush in through the fences at dusk. A massive man with blue ink and locked hair is the last to arrive. The Folk never take their eyes off them. Their attention is always solely on Vee, the Thenn, and the broad warrior from the hall.

The sun drops below the trees far too quickly. Their little world is as silent as the grave. Even the babes and the goats know better than to speak.

Benjen follows Valaena as she climbs one of the platforms behind the wall. A little wildling girl helps her light an arrow. He waits until the trench surrounding them is roaring with fire before he speaks.

“I’m going to fight with you.”

Vee raises a brow. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“It is my duty-

“You’re the only that knows, Benjen. You’ve got another duty now.”

“You can’t just-“

“Are you worried about me?”

“Of course I am! You’re going to fight a fucking white walker.”

“Will you give me your favor?”

“Vee-“

“A kiss, then?”

“Valaena.”

“Benny.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

She reaches up to tap his nose, or maybe his mouth, but he stops her. She’s wearing gloves. Black and stiff. Unworn. 

“You finally put on some gloves.”

“They bring the cold with them,” the girl says. He’d forgotten she was there. Her green eyes are distant and fierce with the same look men carried back to Winterfell from the Rebellion. This girl is too young to have bled yet and she has seen more war than most men. “It burns, their cold. Makes it hard to move. Makes it hurt to breathe.”

“You’ve seen them?” He asks softly.

“Nay. Just their dead.”

He knows better than to ask. He knows better than to say anything. He only nods once and stalks off to wait some more.

  
The temperature drops as the sky darkens. When it is nearly black, not even a star in sight, a cry goes out. Everyone tenses, but the gates are opened far enough for a naked old woman to stumble through. She has nothing more than her boots, a bucket, and a bronze dagger. He might have been distracted by her nakedness if she were not so covered in blood. To his horror, she meets him with hard eyes and waves him over. He considers refusing. He desperately wants too. But he is a Northman. He is a Stark. He knows what this is. 

He removes his cloaks and wraps it around her thin shoulders, then takes the heavy bucket from her. The steaming liquid sloshes heavily. He does not bother to reach for the blade. Old Nan taught him about bronze and women and blood and sap.

“I do not know the words,” he says softly, letting her lean onto his arm.

“They will come to you,” she wheezes. “The gods listen to intent. Not words.”

The Thenn sees them first. He drops to one knee, murmuring something under breath. The wildling man follows him. The Princess does not kneel. She only stares at Benjen curiously, almost warily.

Benjen removes his gloves, rolls back his three sleeves, and dips his hands into the bucket. Heat soaks down to his very bones. He straightens, his hands and wrists nearly black with blood. The crone does the same.

He steps forward to Vee until their boots are nearly kissing. He eyes the intricate weave of her braids, the regal slope of her brow, the full bow of her mouth.

“The Old Gods claim you, Valaena Targaryen.”

She shivers, but she holds her head high.

“The Old Golds claim you, Vee of the Free Folk.”

He places his hand diagonally on her face and presses firmly.

“By bronze and iron, by blood and sap, you are claimed.”

He swipes his hand down, his fingers catching on her lips.

“We claim you by ice and fire.”

She looks like something out of a fever dream. So beautiful, so fierce and bloody. His attention catches on her red stained lips. He still remembers how they felt. He remembers their warmth and softness, even all these years later. He never got to taste her.

“Thank you, Benjen.”

Her soft voice breaks the spell. He sucks in a deep, cold breath and takes a wide step back.

“Old Nan....Old Nan is the one who told us old stories of the She-Wolves of Winterfell. Lya always wanted to be one. She wanted to her own bronze dagger. Begged Father for one-“

The curt, damning horn slices through his clumsy words. Valaena lets out a strangled gasp. Her usual mocking arrogance dissolves into an almost childish fear. She glances at him wildly, beseechingly.

He makes himself snort. “What are you looking at me for? You don’t need me. You’re a wildling Targaryen. It doesn’t get any scarier than that.”

Slowly, that fierce glint begins to burn in her eyes. She manages a sharp, cutting smile, his bloody handprint casting strange shadows across her face, before she spins on her heel. She needs not speak. The wildings warriors nod once. They have red runes scrawled on their cheeks and foreheads. The Thenn raises his massive axe, twisting his hands on the handle, and stomps off. This close, Benjen can see the very edge of the axehead is coated in obsidian. The other man straps his shield to his arm and follows. Vee is close behind with Dark Sister poking over her shoulder.

Benjen heads for one of the platforms, waving for his brothers to follow. The youngest, Phil, gives him a wide berth.

“You got a problem, Phil?”

“That...what you did...It ain’t right.”

Benjen stares at the boy until he steps away, nearly stumbling off the edge.

“They say Ted Tollet rode into battle with an axe in each hand and a seven pointed star carved across his chest,” Benjen reminds him. “There are a hundred gods in the world and they’re each more bloodthirsty than the last.”

“But what did it come from?” Phil asks stubbornly.

“Not what,” Benjen says quietly, “but who.”

Phil blanches, his face as pale as the snow, then reddens just as quickly.

Abe puts a gloved hand on his shoulder. He leans close to speak lowly, but not unkindly. “Watch yourself, Southerner. You’re in the North now. Our way is the old way. The North remembers and for a good reason. Look. Watch.”

The leaves rustle and a man breaks through the tree line. _No_ , Benjen realizes, the air cutting at his lungs and his fingers stiff on fence, _that is no man._ It is tall and stunning and frightening. It is like the Wall, the same foreboding beauty, the same breathtaking sense of awe tinged with dread. It’s ice armor lights up the black night with eerie grays and whites.

 _Stark colors_ , Benjen thinks with a gulp.

It prowls like a shadowcat, coming to a slow, curious halt feet from the trio of fighters. They do nothing but stare at each other for quite a long time.

The Princess is the first to break the silence.

“Ȳdrassis se zaldrīzes ēngos?” She asks. Her clear voice cuts through the cold like a blade.

The thing replies in a harsh, gravely language that grates on Benjen’s ears. Phil cries out and ducks behind Abe, who tightens his grip on his shoulder comfortingly. Marrick grits his teeth and leans over the wall as if to teach himself the words out of sheer will.

The Thenn speaks up. Ben doesn’t know as much of the Old Tongue as he’d like. Only enough to make out ‘know’ and ‘speak’.

The Other laughs in response. It is the worst thing Benjen has ever heard. It is a mouthful of blades, chewed and swallowed and ripping at his intestines.

Vee unsheathes Dark Sister and swings it once, twice, three times.

“Remember the plan?” She asks.

“Aye,” the spearman says.

“Ja,” the Thenn agreed.

They converge as one, the spear thrusting from the center and two blades coming from either side. It would have killed any man. Benjen might have pissed himself at three bloody wildlings come at him like that. The Other only leaps back lazily, his own icy blade still lowered to the ground.

They lunge again and again. Only on the fourth time is the thing forced to fight back. It dances around them in a blur of blue and white and silver, it’s braid nearly identical to Vee’s.

Benjen watches with a death grip on the post. It is a fight like he’s never seen, likely never will see again. The spectators watch with bated breath, not even daring to gasp or pray. Snow crunches under the fighter’s feet and their blades ring out in a deadly song. They are silent except for their heavy breathing.

Gods save him, he wants to be down there. He should be down there. He is the Stark on the Wall. It his duty, his right to be fighting with her.

The wildling dies first. Vee is scrambling to her feet after a boot to the chest. The Other spins away from the Thenn, kicks the spearman in the shield and splits his skull with his ice sword. Almost immediately, the Thenn and Val scamper back. A flaming arrow pierces the cold air, burying itself deep into the wildling’s chest. His body erupts into a searing wall of flames. A sickly sweet scent fills their noses and churns at their bellies.

The Other laughs that grating laugh and steps through the fire. Several people cry out in alarm. Even Marrick allows himself a gasp.

Vee only laughs before attacking, and in that moment, she is truly her father’s daughter. The Other is careless in his movements. He swipes at her legs, at her torso, at her head. Benjen figures it out the moment the others do.

“He’s herding her to the fire,” Abe murmurs. “PRINCESS! THE FIRE!”

It is too late. One moment she is swinging Dark Sister in a wide ark and the next she is in those unnatural flames. Benjen’s heart stutters. His head is spinning, his stomach at his feet.

But there are no screams. Even the Other tilts his head in wonder.

Then she steps through.

She steps through just as easily as it had. Her brows are gone, half of her hair is singed, and some of her clothes have burned away. But she is alive and unburnt and Dark Sister’s ruby shines as warm as the sun.

She screams, the Thenn bellows, and they rush the beast. It blocks them easily, but it’s movements are harried now. Purposeful. It never looks away from Vee, it’s eerie eyes locked onto her smooth, exposed skin and the blur of the ruby.

It is a mistake.

The Thenn spins around the Other’s left, his axe poised for attack. Valaena suddenly barrels into the thing’s chest, her hands grabbing at its arm, as the Thenn buries his weapon into its side.

There is a screech, a screech so inhuman, so unnatural, that it raises the hairs on Benjen’s arms. He grunts and covers his ears, instinctively folding into himself. The Other’s armor melts into blue blood, and then its skin hardens and cracks. A thousand pieces of crystal flicker orange in the fire where the beast once stood.

The ice sword, however, is in Valaena’s left hand. She and the Thenn stare down at it, their chests heaving.

One person claps. Another one. Someone shouts with joy. Soon, the entire hamlet is filled with an ecstatic cheer. Val grins suddenly, the handprint distorting eerily. She nudges the Thenn with her foot and says something to him. He only frowns back.

Loud enough for all to hear, his deep voice bellows, “WHAT?!”

She frowns. “WHAT?!”

He scowls and sighs. “SHEATHE THAT BEFORE YOU KILL US ALL!”

“WHAT?! I CAN’T-“

“YOUR SWORD!” He screams, waving at the icy blade with his free hand. “SHEATHE YOUR SWORD!”

“OH. ALRIGHT. COME ON THEN....SLAYER.” She smiles widely as she passes Dark Sister to him and sheathes the Other’s sword and buckles it over shoulder. “SIGGY THE SLAYER!”

He obviously can’t hear her, but he rolls his eyes all the same and drags her back to the gates. Benjen and his brothers watch as the villagers crowd them, weeping and laughing and reaching to touch any part of them they can reach. The sworn brothers leap down and make their way over to wait at the end of the procession.

Valaena constructed a room for herself at the back of the longhouse. She once confessed to him that she missed having chambers to herself. The Thenn will retire with her. They will want to celebrate their victory and keep warm. Benjen doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like that the doesn’t like it.

He bows his head when they approach. His brothers follow suit. Phil stares at the two of them unabashedly. They really do look like a couple of pagan gods, tall and bloody and grinning like maniacs.

Benjen can’t help but to smile at her. “I told you-“

“I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING!” She yells back. 

“Oh.” Moving his mouth slowly, he says, “You did very well.”

She smiles one of those smiles that makes his heart stutter. Behind him, Phil sucks in a sharp breath.

“THANKS! OUR DEAL?”

“Yes. We will leave-“

“NOT THAT ONE.”

“What one?”

“THE KISS.”

Benjen laughs despite himself. “I never-“

But she’s already on him, stinking of sweat and fire and burnt hair, her lips soft and warm on his. Pressing. Demanding.

She tastes like mint.

He shoves off of her, his heart thundering and his lips tingling. Her violet eyes are biting into his. His hands clench into fists.

“I swore vows, Valaena.”

She only smirks. “I’LL HAVE YOU ONE DAY, BENJEN STARK.”

Gods help him, he knows it’s true. And he doesn’t think he wants to do anything to stop it. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While still a batty old crone, Old Nan isn’t blind in this story.

Valaena Targaryen’s presence becomes as inevitable as winter. It carries that same cold certainty and daunting beauty, the same dichotomy of fierce storms and serene snows. He wants to hate her for it, but he’s never been the type. He and Ned were the levelheaded thinkers of their pack. Brandon and Lyanna were the ones who hoarded all of the joy and rage and love and hate and left nothing for Ned and Ben when they died. 

They had both been so bold and wild in everything they did. Nothing ever in halves. The first time Benjen sleeps with Valaena, he lies awake for hours, staring at the cave walls and wondering what they would say.

When Ned once accused Brandon of being cruel and dishonorable, their brother had gone uncharacteristically serious.

“Brother, do you really think so low of me?” He had asked. “Do you think so low of them? Women seek me out just as often as I approach them. I do not promise them marriage or wealth. I only promise them love. Sometimes that love lasts one night. Sometimes it lasts three turns of the moon. And sometimes, Ned, my love is the only love those women ever get to know before they’re sold off.”

Ned had scoffed. “You mean to tell me you’ve loved every woman you’ve ever lain with?”

“Of course not, but love isn’t marriage. It’s not something out of a song. It’s something different for everyone. I don’t believe in soulmates or marriage. It’s all horseshit. There are too many different kinds of love to have it all in one person.”

And there had been Lya. She had too much love for one person, too, though hers was of a more monogamous sort.

“I love them, Ben,” she’d said. “I know it sounds stupid. I know I just met them, but my chest feels all funny when he kisses me and when I look at her, I want to make her feel the same way. Does that make me awful?”

But they died. Their love got them killed. What they would have said shouldn’t matter.

Ned is alive and honorable. Benjen would like to speak with Ned about it all, but there’s no time. The Watch cannot convince the Seven Kingdoms that a children’s tale has come to life with naught but a wildling Targaryen with a magic sword for proof. Instead, rangers comb though every keep on the wall, every village of Free Folk, every nook and cranny in the Frostfangs for something. Anything.

So Ben carries on with Valaena. He tells himself it won’t last long. Their lustful infatuation will subside and they will be close friends. Allies. Brother and sister in arms.

It’s all a lie, of course. A decade passes and it never fades. He’ll go moons without seeing her and when they meet again, they fall into the same routine. Training and plotting and laughing and kissing.

Mormont disapproves but it isn’t like Benjen is the only one with a woman on the side. The Free Folk have grown to like and respect him, and she's the bridge between them all. When they are together, he forgets that he is First Ranger and she is the Princess of the Free Folk. They are just Ben and Vee, two friends at the end of the world.

* * *

**298 AC**

The straw dummy crinkles with every swing of his blunt sword. Jon hoards it usually: his rage, his disappointment, his shame, his sorrow. He hoards it all, lets it settle under his skin as ice. Sometimes he’s afraid it’ll all come out in one big rush, like a dragon breathing fire or an avalanche in one of Nan’s stories. It isn’t often, thank the gods, but tonight is one of those nights.

“I’ve seen better form on little girls.”

Jon spins, sword raised. He stares at who he finds. She’s beautiful. Even more beautiful than Lady Catelyn and Queen Cersei. Her hair is a black so dark it shines blue under the moonlight and her skin is porcelain. She’s tall, as tall as Uncle Benjen, and dressed as a man, if men dressed in all white leathers and furs. A pale leather pommel peeks out over her shoulder.

“Why do you wear your sword on your back?” He asks stupidly.

Jon cringes. He’s never been good with women, especially pretty ones. She may be as old as Father, but she’s gorgeous.

“It’s a good sword,” she says. Her eyes, the same blue-black as her hair, glitter in the dancing flames of the torches. “It’s normal for those of us that travel. You learn early on to keep good steel on your back until it’s time to fight. These fancy lords and kingsguard don’t have to worry about being robbed. They can keep their blades strapped to their horses or guarded in their big tents.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jon admits. Then, after a moment of awkward silence, he asks, “You travel?”

It would explain her accent. It’s odd. Almost northern, but not quite. She doesn’t speak like a commoner either.

“I do.”

“Where do you go?”

“I’ve been to Lannisport and King’s Landing and Dragonstone. I’ve seen the Wall and explored the lands beyond it.”

Jon is too shocked to hide his surprise. “What?! Like with the wildlings?”

“Aye,” she says with a laugh. “I live amongst the Free Folk.”

“But they’re thieves and rapers!”

“So are men and women of the North, the South, Qarth, and Mereen. Humans are just humans, Jon Snow.”

“How do you know my name?” Jon asks, just as someone else says, “Very wise, my lady.”

They both turn to find Tyrion Lannister lifting himself on a crate. He takes a long swing from a wineskin and belches softly. The woman quirks a brow at Jon, who shrugs in reply. He doesn’t want to embarrass Father and ignoring the Queen’s brother seems like a good way to do it. They sidle over to Lord Lannister and nod their heads in greeting.

“Tell me, my lady, have you been to Qarth and Meereen?” Lord Tyrion asks.

“No. I thought about it, but I prefer cold weather. And I’m no lady. I’m much more than that.”

Lord Tyrion’s mismatched eyes rove over her tall frame. “Oh, I’ve no doubt. Lady...”

“Raven. Named so for my hair. Straight and black as a raven’s feathers right out the womb.”

“It is singular, Lady Raven.”

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion.”

Lord Tyrion raises his brows. “And how does a mere traveler know my name? And that of Ned Stark’s bastard?”

“Your sexual prowess is legendary even to us poor folk beyond the Wall, Tyrion Lannister.”

“Wildlings don’t use words like prowess.”

“Don’t we?”

“How did you know my name?” Jon interrupts harshly, his fist clenched tight.

Of course a lord’s son would take over his conversation with a pretty woman. It’s how these things always go. No girl wants anything to do with a bastard when there’s a lord around, even a dwarf lord. And why should they? Who is Jon to have these kinds of things? Tonight has proved his place in the world. Forced from the family table to be overlooked by strangers out in the night.

“I’m a wilding,” she says simply.

Tyrion scoffs. Jon huffs and rolls his eyes.

“I’ll have you know I’m dead serious,” she says in a very not serious way. Raven, if that is her name, shrugs lightly. “The Starks are respected in a way that no other name is, even in the True North.”

“I’m not a Stark,” Jon says bitterly.

Tyrion Lannister frowns up at him. He’s very perceptive for a drunk man.

“You’re the child of one,” Raven counters.“Ask your uncle. He’s called Starkson by some of the mountain tribes.”

“You know my uncle?”

“Intimately.”

Lord Tyrion chuckles.

“Now I know you’re lying,” Jon declares. “My uncle is the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch.”

“Who, if you recall, vow to take no wife, hold no lands, nor father children. Ben is zero for three thus far, though some argue that we are married by Free Folk standards.”

“You’re lying,” Jon repeats. “Uncle Benjen would never break his vows.”

“He hasn’t. Not with me anyway. You don’t think he’s got a woman on the side, do you?”

“You can never be sure that you will father no children,” Jon insists.

“You can if it’s only ever up the ass.”

Lord Tyrion spews his wine all over Jon’s boots, who is working very hard to fight back the burning in his cheeks. He prays for the gods to strike him down, a quick and painless end to this misery.

“Or down the throat, or-“

“Lady Raven!” Jon squeaks.

She throws her head back and cackles. It’s a deep laugh, one from her belly that echoes around the dark training yard. Not many women her age laugh like that with men around.

“If you’re a wildling, did you climb the Wall to get here?” Lord Tyrion asks.

”No. I went the long way ‘round through Skagos and White Harbor.” She flips her hair over her shoulder arrogantly. “I’m much too selfish to risk my life climbing the Wall. There are too many things to do than die so foolishly.”

Lord Tyrion inclines his head in agreement. In his drunken state, it tips further and further down until he almost flips over his feet and onto the ground. Raven’s full, shapely lips turn up in an amused smile. After a moment of watching him teeter on the barrel, she turns her piercing gaze onto Jon.

“Run along, little dragon. I've always wanted to meet Ned Stark."  
  
With that, she disappears into the shadow of the armory. Jon counts to seven in his head and walks into the empty guardhouse. He breaks into a run as soon as he's out of sight, taking every shortcut he knows until he's back at the Great Hall.

The feast is still in full swing, as loud and warm as it was when he fled. Father is nowhere to be seen, Robb has disappeared as well, and Uncle Benjen....Jon breathes a sigh of relief. Uncle Benjen and Father are standing against the wall with their dark heads bent in deep conversation. He pushes past Lannisters and dogs and serving maids alike, ignoring the slurred insults and shocked reprimands of 'Jon Snow!'.A distant part of him feels guilty for acting so disrespectfully, but this isn't the time for kindness.

"Father!"

The Stark brothers turn as one. It’s almost eerie, especially with how much they look alike. Jon briefly wonders what they would be like on the battlefield together.

“There’s a wildling!” he says in a rush. “A wildling! In the training yard. She went-“

“She?” Uncle Benjen cuts in.

“She said she knows you.” There is no point in repeating the base accusations she made. He'd almost rather face the Hound in single combat.

Benjen heaves a great sigh, casting his eyes to the heaven in a plea for the gods.

“Ben?” Father asks.

“It’s only Vee,” he says. Then murmuring to himself, “I should have known.”

Father furrows his brow. “You know this wildling?”

“Aye. She’s a good friend," Benjen explains, sipping on his ale. "Its her sword I'm watching over."

Jon glances at his uncle's hip. A longsword with a dark leather pommel juts out proudly.

“Friend?”

“Saved each other’s lives a few times,” he says nonchalantly. Father’s eyes narrow in suspicion at his tone, but Benjen resolutely barrels on. “Look, Val’s a bit...odd, compared to the women down here, but she’s not dangerous. Well, not to good people anyway.”

“Ben, that won’t work on me like it did Brandon.”

Jon presses lips together in a firm line to hide his amusement. Father always comes alive when his brother visits. In response, Benjen sighs and casts his gaze over the crowded hall.

"She's part of the reason I came down," he says quietly, leaning in. Both Ned and Jon shuffle closer to better hear. "Things are stirring up north. Bad things. Old things. I meant to talk to you about it tomorrow, but if she's here she's bound to cause a scene and I don't want it to be the first time you hear about it."

"A scene? With Robert's court?! We must-"

"No, Ned," Benjen says, his countenance grim. "I think we'll need one."

Father runs a hand over his face. "Very well. We'll speak in my solar. Come on."

They hurry through Winterfell discussing the state of the Watch and the North. Jon manages to follow them out of the hall and up three floors until Father realizes he's tagged along.

"Go on," he orders, his beard twitching in amusement. "Wake Robb and tell him of all you've learned tonight."

Jon grins. "Goodnight, Father. Uncle."

Curiously, Benjen hesitates, as if he wants to say something. After a weary glance at his brother, however, he merely smiles and waves him on. It isn't until he's nearly asleep, Robb's socked foot digging into his shoulder, that he remembers something odd. She called him a dragon.

* * *

  
Jon breaks his fast with Old Nan and some of the household. He fills her plate then starts on his own as the Hall steadily fills with people. Winterfell is more subdued than it was during the feast. All of the Lannister soldiers burrow into their cloaks and rub their hands together as they chat. The Queen has even gone so far as to eat with her gloves. 

Uncle Benjen suddenly plops down on Jon’s right. The dreary sun highlights all the scars on his face. There’s a small pink one on his cheekbone and a thicker white line that creates a bald spot in his beard. The smaller one slants as his eyes crinkle in a smile past Jon.

“Mornin’ Nan. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Old Nan gives him a sour look that has Jon recoiling.

Benjen only laughs and nudges Jon’s ribs. “So’s the Queen. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I was looking at her gloves. I can’t believe they’re all so cold.”

His uncle chuckles. “I’d love to see them on the Wall. They wouldn’t-“

“WOMAN!”

Jon jolts upright out of instinct. On the dais, the King is squinting out into the crowd with his mug half raised. Jon follows his line of sight, inhaling sharply when he sees the wildling woman. She’s even more beautiful by day. Half of her blue-black hair is pulled back into a series of intricate braids and her cloak has been discarded to reveal a tight leather trousers under a white jerkin. In the light, he can see that it isn’t just the grip of her sword bound in leather; the entire hilt is.

The cheerful sounds of the Hall fade as she prowls up the aisle. Seeing a woman dressed like a warrior is a rare sight even in the North. The way she moves puts Jon in mind of someone, but he can’t quite remember who. He glances up at Robb, only three seats down from King Robert. His mouth has parted and his eyes are nearly bugging out of his head. He hadn’t believed Jon when he called her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Said it must have been the ale talking. Idiot.

The woman inclines her head to the King, her pink lips pulled up in a mocking smile.

“You do not bow before your king and queen?” Queen Cersei asks softly. On her left, Prince Joffrey sneers in derision.

“Not my king.”

A wave of hisses and gasps rises and subsequently falls as the King holds up a meaty fist.

“Not your king? Then who is it you call king, wench?”

“Mance Rayder.” She pauses for effect. “The King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

The crowd immediately erupts in chaos. Only Father, Lady Stark, and the Queen remain perfectly stoic. Even the Kingsguard lean forward as if to get a better look. Wildlings are children's stories to all these southerners, little more than grumpkins and snarks instead of a real threat. 

“QUIET!” The king bellows.

The sheer command in his voice runs a chill down Jon’s spine. What must he have been like in his prime? A man as tall as that, packed with muscle and wielding a hammer the size of most axes? What did Rhaegar Targaryen think when the Demon of the Trident came charging at him, screaming for his death with that thunderous voice?

Robert Baratheon leans over the table and scowls furiously. “A wildling dares enter my Ned’s home?”

“Fear not, Storm King. I won’t be raping any of your fair maidens.” She eyes Jaime Lannister from head to toe. He looks like more of a king than Robert Baratheon could dream to, tall and broad and golden in his shining armor. “Though I wouldn’t mind stealing a lion.”

The Kingslayer smiles dangerously. “You could try.”

At Jon’s side, Uncle Benjen groans under his breath.

“Enough,” the Queen commands in a venomous tone. She is a pale shade of the force of nature that is her husband.. “You’ve come here for a reason. What is it you want from us?”

“My king loves a good story and I thought I might bring back a few to tell him of another king.”

“What is your name?” Father asks.

“I am Vee of the Free Folk.” She sinks into a deep curtesy. showing more respect to

Lord Stark than she did the King. The sentiment is not lost on Cersei Lannister. Her face twists in an unflattering amalgamation of confusion and distaste. “And you are the Stark in Winterfell. I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time, Lord Eddard.”

“And so you have, Vee of the Free Folk. You came here seeking our attention and now you have it. What is it you want? You would have remained hidden if you only wanted stories.”

“I’ve come here on behalf of my people. I come to warn you of the winter ahead.”

Uncle Benjen grows very, very still. He doesn’t seem to dare to breathe.

“Is that a threat, wench?” The King demands.

“No. A warning, Demon. Winter is coming. A winter the likes of which hasn’t been seen for a thousand years.”

The Queen scoffs, but her younger brother interrupts. The Imp sits tall in his seat and asks, “And how would you know? Don’t you live in a land of perpetual winter?”

A few people laugh. Most of the northerners, however, share uneasy glances. A hard winter is nothing to jest at. The hall goes silent as she speaks, her melodic voice wrapping around their hearts and pulling them into the story she weaves.

“I know because the sky has disappeared in Thenn Valley. There is no food, no light, no warmth. Only ice and the dark. Time stands still without the sun or the moon. We count the time by the gnawing in our bellies and the ashes that pile from the bodies we burn. And yet the storms grow. They build and rage until they destroy entire villages in one breath. Elder’s slit one another’s throats to appease the Heart Trees. Mothers smother their babes to provide mercy the only way they can. And yet still the winter comes.”

In one fluid movement, she unsheathes the sword at her back. Jon gapes. It is beautiful in the way that terrible things can be, a longsword made from ice. It freezes the surrounding air and soaks up all the light that dares touch it.

The silence is broken by a loud snort. Jaime Lannister rolls his eyes at the wildling and her strange blade.

“That will shatter in one blow.”

Her answering smile is blinding.

“Then why don’t you try? You’ve already slayed a dragon with that pretty gold sword of yours. Why don’t we see if it can hold up against a little ice?”

The Kingslayer tilts his head, a god considering if it is worth the trouble to humor an ant. Eventually, he turns back to his king with a blank look. King Robert hardly spares him a glance as he waves his hand in acquiescence. His beady gaze is trapped on the strange sword.

No one dares to breathe as Lannister saunters forward. He unsheathes his infamous golden sword and stands across from the woman. Jon suddenly realizes who she reminded him of minutes ago. It was the Kingslayer. She moves with the same sort of predatory grace that he does.

‘ _She’s saved my life a couple of times,’_ Benjen had said.

Lannister swings lazily. She leans back the slightest bit to avoid it. He swings again, quicker this time, and she avoids it just as quickly. His cat eyes glint dangerously and he strikes for true, his sword nothing but a gold blur and whisper on the wind. Vee dodges it easily. 

“You’ll have to do better than that, Lannister.”

The Kingslayer attacks without abandon. Jon barely has enough time to comprehend how someone could possibly move so fast when a loud crack rings throughout the room. Jaime Lannister catches himself mid-stumble, his wide green eyes caught on the jeweled hilt of his sword. A palm’s length of gold and steel is all that remains of the blade. He is too shocked to care for sharp ice at his neck.

“Yield."

He steps back with his golden brows furrowed. Ice sword still raised, she looks out into the crowd.

“Would anyone else care to try?”

Jon starts when Father stands, his chair scraping against the stone. He holds out his hand to a guard as he rounds the table, who quickly palms over his weapon. Father takes up the Kingslayer’s position and swings the borrowed greatsword a few times. He nods to himself as he learns the balance and weight, then withdraws into an defensive position.

Vee does not hesitate. Father dodges the first strike, then swings with all his might to block the second. Another crack echoes and more shards of steel clatter onto the ground. Vee instantly lowers her blade, the point hovering over the stone floor.

“Only Valyrian steel and dragonglass- obsidian, it is sometimes called- can hold up to these weapons. Lord Stark, would you be so kind as to send for Ice, perhaps we can hold a dem-“

“There’s no need,” Benjen calls out.

“Uncle?” Jon whispers.

He spares Jon a smile before swinging over the bench and crossing to the wildling. They are striking beside one another: tall and scarred and dressed in black and white. He unsheathes the new sword on his hip. Every bit of the hilt is wrapped in dark leather, but the Valyrian steel is incapable of disguise.

“How did you manage to get your hands on Valyrian steel?” The Kingslayer asks, almost in disgust.

Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night’s Watch, smiles like a wolf.

“A wildling gave it to me.”

Laughs and whistles sound from the Northerner’s tables. Jon watches, though, how Vee’s lips twitch and Uncle Benjen’s eyes flash with amusement. Jon glances up at the table to catch Robb’s eye, but Sansa catches his attention instead. She is looking between the two of them with a soft expression. Great. First Robb and now Sansa believe that Benjen is breaking his vows with a wildling. They’ll never listen to reason.

“Hello, Benjen. It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough. Get out of the way, Ned. I want to make her bleed again.”

Father steps between the two and plants the tip of his greatsword into a divot of the stone floor.

"Vee of the Free Folk has had bread and salt," he says sternly. "No harm will come to her in my walls. Not even from you, little brother."

_Run along, little dragon._

Uncle Benjen huffs and lowers his weapon. The wildling takes a half step forward. 

"I'll trade with you if you'd rather be the one to demonstrate, my lord."

“That’s no wildling,” a woman whispers.

Talia, Lady Stark’s eldest handmaiden, frowns on the other side of Old Nan. The guard sitting across the table nods in agreement. 

“What makes you say that?” Jon asks. 

“Folks like us say milord,” the guard, Alyx, answers.

“She’s a dragon,” Old Nan declares.

“What?!” Jon blurts. Thankfully, his exclamation is drowned out by the eerie screech of ice on steel at the front of the room.

Talia rests her hand on Old Nan’s. “Nan-“

“This’ll be twice a wolf’s ensared a dragon and nothing good came of it last time.”

Talia casts an apologetic glance at Jon. He forgets why she would momentarily, until he remembers Aunt Lya. It’s easy to forget all that Father’s done, that he ended a dynasty for his sister.

“Nan, the Targaryens are all gone,” the handmaiden says.

“Not Princess Valaena,” Alyx mutters, his face paling. “The White Bull stopped here once when he was looking for her. I’ll never forget it. He sat right where the Queen’s sitting. He never found her. No one did.”

“Said her name was Vee, didn’t she?” Talia asks. Her eyes are as wide as the plates below them.

“She looks like Egg,” Old Nan muses.

“What?”

“Egg. She’s got his nose and lips. And his attitude. Brat of a child. I pulled him over my knees and Dunk stopped me, said it w-“

“What?! Nan, what are you talking about?”

“Egg. Awful whelp. Worse than Lyanna, that one. It’s no wonder the dragon took interest in her. She was-“

“You can’t expect us to believe that you met Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Oh, I did more than meet him. He-

Jon’s mind whirls and whirls until the room starts to spin.

_Worse than Lyanna, that one. It’s no wonder the dragon took interest in her._

_This’ll be twice a wolf’s ensnared a dragon._

_He ended a dynasty for his sister._

_You might not have my name, but you have my blood._

_Run along, little dragon._

Slowly, so very hesitantly, Jon looks back to the dais. Vee of the Free Folk meets his gaze with a wide smirk, her indigo eyes- really, how hadn’t seen it before?- crinkling in smug amusement. His eyes trail over to Father next. He should be Lord Stark, listening to Benjen talk about the Night’s Watch investigations with a stoic expression. Instead, he gaze is riveted to Jon, his hand clenched tight around the ice sword and his jaw clenching 

_Run along, little dragon._

_Little dragon._

Jon runs. 

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a timeline I made for myself if you’re interested: 
> 
> Tormund says it took Mance 20 years to unite the free folk- 268 ish?
> 
> BEN  
> 267 - born  
> 281 - harrenhall- 14  
> 283 - end of war/ joins night’s watch - 16  
> 287 - becomes first ranger - 20  
> 298 - got - 31
> 
> VAL  
> 263 - born, betrothed to Rhaegar  
> 276 - Runs away, leaves letter. - 14  
> 277 - duskendale. Search is halted in distraction - 15  
> 279 - King takes his L and betrothes Rhaegar. - 17  
> 283 - 20  
> 298 - 35


End file.
